He
shuffles across the lawn. His fists cram into his pockets
and his wet sandals toe the doormat. It’s cold for
March. He presses the doorbell. He waits. No
one comes. He presses the doorbell again. No one
comes. He leans on the doorbell.

His shadow jumps onto the
door and disappears. He turns, a boxy Volvo is grumbling
into the driveway. The parking brake cranks a halt, the two
front doors crank open, crank shut. Mr and Mrs P wrapped in
winter coats look curiously at him, put their heads to the
ground, and make their way side by side along the walk. His
fists cram into his pockets, he smiles nicely, and catches Mrs
P’s eye as they near the stoop. He sidles over to the
rail as they step up. Mr P is unpocketing his keys.

“Hey, Mrs P, how are
you?”

“Aren’t you
cold?”

“Who? Me?
Nah.”

“You sure?”

“Oh sure, why would
I be?”

Click—the lock
unlocks, he scuttles inside right behind them

They glide noiselessly
over the carpet past the dining room table to the closet, hang
their coats. Then she comes down the stairs, putting her
hair up. She smiles at him and continues walking into the
sunporch. Mr and Mrs P settle down at the table, where a
broken jigsaw awaits.

“Looks like you’ve
got a long night ahead of you.”

“No, it shouldn’t
take that long.”

“Oh. Well, I’m
gonna…” he nods over his shoulder.

“Don’t have
too much fun in there.”

“Ha, yeah. You
got it.” He smiles nicely, walks away. His
sandals fumble over along the tightly laid lines in the carpet.
There she is: lying on the couch in the cozy little sunporch,
snuggled up in her afghan with the TV on. Her glasses are
on, too, her hair damp.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey.”

“What’s a gal
like you doing in a place like this?”

“Uh, I kinda live
here.”

“Hm. That must
make me a guest.” He plops onto the couch, kicks off
this sandals, and drapes his feet over her lap.

“Get outta here.”
She pushes his feet to the carpet, facing him towards the TV.

Commercial.
Microsoft Office and another great moment at work.

Ray is eating a cheese
sampler, straight, and he won’t let Robert have any.
Robert notices a suitcase on the stairs and asks, “What’s
that suitcase doing over there?”

“It’s been
there a week. Deb forgot to move it or something.”

“Oh. Well, why
don’t you move it?”

“Oh no, no no no.
It’s in the house. Deborah takes care of the house.
Therefore, it’s her job to move it. I’ll bet
she’s doing this on purpose. But nah-uh, I’m
not giving in.”

It’s cold in here.
You’re warm though, except for your hands. It feels
like it should be snowing. When was the last time it
snowed—what, a month ago? No, must have been before
that, the day of snow-Godzilla.

So what did you think,
huh?

It’s good.

Better than you and
your dad’s.

No way.

Are you kidding?
It’s monumental.

It’s stupid.

What! Godzilla?
Stupid? We’re talking Lord of the Reptiles, Bane of
Tokyo. All you’ve got is some stumpy Eskimo.

Well, we made ours when
the snow wasn’t as good.

Yeah, that’s
true. I don’t know how you did it. Wait—I
bet you used a snowblower.

—.

You did, didn’t
you!

So what?

It’s cheating,
that’s what.

No—it’s
like using a shovel to make a sandcastle.

But this is snow.
It’s completely different.

How is it different?

Well, for one, you
can’t eat sand.

Shut-up.

Two, snow comes from
when the angels’ wings shiver.

Aw, did your mommy tell
you that?

Yes, and more
importantly, three, you just can’t compare two different
artistic media. It’s like—

No it’s not!
You just keep making stuff up.

Uh! I’m
offended.

Shut-up. You’re
smiling. You know it.

When have I ever lied
to you?

Ha! You lie
constantly.

Like when? I bet
you can’t name one time I lied.

Just because I don’t
remember right now doesn’t make you not a liar.

I think you’re
the liar.

What! How am I a
liar?

You said your dinky
little Eskimo is better than my seven-foot monolith of Godzilla’s
tyrannical splendor.

That’s because it
is.

Oh? Look
outside—Godzilla’s eating your Eskimo.

See? Right
there. You lied.

No, I’m totally
serious. Look.

See, there’s
nothing there.

That’s just
because Godzilla finished him off already—that’s how
awesome he is.

Shut-up. Ours is
better. You are such a liar.

I certainly am not a
liar!

—.

Okay, how about I’m
just confused?

Airplane: $90. Taxi:
$8.45. Train: $6.15. Making it home for dinner:
priceless. Mastercard.

Ray has to go on a
business trip. He packs his clothes in a plastic bag.
Deb insists he take the suitcase.

“Nope, I’ve
got everything I need right here,” he insists.

“Shut-up, Ray.
Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s
waterproof, light, and there’s nothing you can do to stop
me.”

Deb tears the bag in
half. Ray grabs a new one from the kitchen drawer and
runs. Later, before leaving, he hides a smelly piece of
cheese in the suitcase. When he returns from his trip, the
whole house reeks and the suitcase is still sitting on the
stairs. Ray and Deb exchange witty unpleasantries, then
they make up, then they run up the stairs to really make up.
But, when they reach the suitcase, they stop and fight over who
wants to take the stupid suitcase up the stairs more. The
audience laughs heartily.

Capital One. What’s
in your wallet?

“You want anything
to drink?”

“Sure.”
Wait, no. Don’t get up. Let’s lie here
and just talk. We haven’t just talked in a while.
I want to talk.

She gets up and walks
through the dining room. Mr and Mrs P must have gone
upstairs without finishing their jigsaw. Looks like Mona
Lisa. He scuttles after her into the kitchen. The
way you walk, with those small, jaunty steps—I have to
shorten my steps when we walk through Mindowaskin Park to our
bench, the one we signed with glitter Sharpies. She opens
the fridge, bends, peeks in. The way you bend over, your
shirt runs up your back baring that milky skin I just want to
reach down and touch. “Orange juice looks good.”
Of course, it’s your favorite. She pulls the carton
from the fridge, a cup from the cabinet. Clink, clunk.
Sh, the house is sleeping. She pours a glass and walks back
to the couch. He follows her into the sunporch. He
sists down next to her, puts his glass on the carpet, and feels
his long arm against her perfectly small back.

Easy, breezy, beautiful
Cover Girl.

She flips channels until
CSI: Miami. She reclines, pulls her afghan over her
shoulders, and drapes her feet over his lap.

Why’ve you always
got the TV on?

I don’t know.
What, you need ambient noise or something?

Yeah, I guess.

Ambient noise is
stupid. Is that the right word? Hm, lemme check.

It doesn’t
matter.

Nah, I wanna make
sure. The dictionary is right over there.

No, stop. Stay
here.

Law
& Order was on. Then the Spring PCS guy cleared up a
couple’s static.

I want to turn it off.

No. You can’t.

Oh yeah? Whisked
the remote from your hands. Just one click, voila.

Some little girl is dead
on Chuckie Cheese’s bathroom floor. Last seen leaving
the ball pit. Her lips are blue. Snapshots of her
corpse from every angle flash and fade. Gloved hands scour
the walls, floor, sinks and stalls for prints.

Cut to the lab. She
was asphyxiated, choked on a pill her attacker tired to force
down her throat.

Cut to the security room.
The bastard avoided the cameras. Must have staked out the
placed beforehand. No fingerprints, either.

Nissan. The spring
sales event is here. What are you waiting for?

Hey! You
whisked it back, lowered it between your legs, and slid it under
the couch, then pushed yourself on top of me, grabbed my hands,
and smiled. Your legs wrapped around mine.

No. I’m
serious.

C’mon.
Please?

Tried to get up, but your
body was so warm, the night so cold—sighed, leaned back and
slipped your fingers between mine.

The pill was a sedative.
They trace some sales, ask people some questions, ask some more
people some questions, get an address. He’s not home,
but his two kids are. They nab him after he comes home from
his bike ride.

Verizon Wireless.
Can you hear me now?

“Can I turn the TV
off?”

“Why?”
She raises her head from his shoulder.

“I want to talk.”

“We can talk with it
on, you know.” She sits up, smiling.

“I can’t.”
He pushes his hands into the cushion and lifts himself from the
couch.

“No…”
she moans as he stands, reaches to the TV, and turns around.
There she is, lying across the couch, lower lip pushed out at me,
arms crossed.

“Hey, let me sit,
huh?”

“Uh.”

“C’mon.”
He picks up her struggling feet, sits, and drops them over his
lap. He leans over her. “Lemme ask you
something.”

“Sure.”

“Why do you like
me?”

“What?”

“I just want to know
why you like me.”

“Okay….Well,
you’re nice, and you’re sweet, and you’re like
the only guy I know who doesn’t drink or smoke or something
stupid like that.”

“Why don’t you
go out with my brother—he’s nice and doesn’t
drink.”

“What? What
are you talking about?”

“I…I don’t
know. It’s just that—” that you sit there
looking at me all confused.

You were unwrapping the
first part of your gift, an oils set. Ah, but the second
part, the real kicker, was a double CD set, the top 40 songs from
your birthday, October fourth, nineteen eighty-five—

What? What’s
wrong?

Oh. Nothing.
It’s just you wrote October fourth on the CD, that’s
all.

Yeah, so?

Well, October fourth’s
not my birthday.

What? You’re
joking.

No, I’m not.
My birthday is October third.

Oh my God.

No, it’s okay.
It’s really nice. Don’t worry about it.

I am so sorry. I
can’t believe it—I could have sworn—I knew it
was October fourth, I knew it.

Why didn’t you
just ask?

It’s just that I
thought I knew it was October fourth. I was so sure.
Are you sure?

Yes. My birthday
is October third.

Jesus. I am so,
so sorry. I can’t believe it. How come last
year it was the fourth?

The fourth was just the
night we went out.

I can’t believe I
screwed this up. I’m. So. Sorry.

No, it’s okay.
It’s really sweet. It’s not a big deal.

I—

Just forget about it.
Really. I’m not upset or anything.

“It’s just
that I don’t feel close to you anymore.”

She lays her hand on his
cheek. She considers it and kisses him. To kiss
back—oh, it’s just so easy, to forget and remember
when Mrs P ran to the store for oranges and we kissed and then
more than kissed took off my shirt, your shirt, pressed chest to
hot, sticky chest.

Hey, what happened to
that picture you were gonna draw of us together?

Oh, I’m still
working on it.

When you gonna finish
it?

I don’t know.

You said you’d
finish it before school started.

Yeah, I’ve been
busy.

I think you’re
just baffled by my beauty.

Yup. You’ve
got it.

Seriously, though.

How about you show me
the story you’re writing, huh?

Oh, right. I just
wanna touch it up some.

Why can’t you
just show me now. It’s almost done, right?

But it’s not
done. Not until it’s done.

C’mon, just show
me.

No. Not until
it’s done.

He pulls his face back
from hers. “No, I’m serious.”

“—.”

“Like, it’s
been so long, and I just don’t feel close to you.”

Look I want to talk, to
you.

Okay.

Well, it’s like
this. See, I’m not breaking up with you—it’s
just I don’t know where this, us, is going.

—.

I
mean, I just don’t know what I want from us. I—I
just can’t see...what’s wrong?

Crying. You were like really crying. Face in
hands, shaking, gasping, all that. I rubbed her back.
Crying. I slid along our bench until our bodies met.
August’s last warm, heavy night.

“Say something.”

“I just…don’t know—what to say.”

“There’s not any one ‘what’ to say.
Like, I don’t know, just anything.”

“It just feels like I’m always…disappointing
you.”

He slides against her on the couch, arm around her rubbing
arm. “I need a tissue,” she says while lifting
herself from the couch and scurries into the kitchen. He
sits, then gets up and follows halfway, stopping in the dining
room near the door. She comes back form the kitchen.
Hands in pockets, he looks at her from under his eyebrows.
She is smiling.

You’re smiling?

She punches him in the stomach.

“What’s that for?”

“I don’t know,” smiling.

He steps toward her, holds her hips. “Are you
okay?”

She nods.

She yawns. “I’m tired. It’s
late.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I know it’s late, I
just really wanted to talk to you.”

He opens the door and just steps out of the sleeping house
onto the doorstep. She closes the door behind him. He
turns and catches her smile through the window pane. A
Honda turns into the driveway next door. He sees his shadow
jump onto the door. It’s cold for March.

He crams his fists
deep into his pockets and starts across the lawn. He can’t
help but think, “Kinda thirsty. Wish I had that
orange juice now.”

Matt
Smith is studying at Harvard University while interning at
Time Magazine on a part time basis. He has attended the annual
New England Young Writers' Conference, received the Oberlin
College Alumni Association's Book Award for for excellence in
English, and won a Gold Key Award for his non-fiction portfolio
in the The New York Times James B. Reston competition. This is
his first published work.

Copyright
2005, Matt Smith. This work is protected under the U.S.
copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or
altered without the expressed written permission of the author.